Lent 2026 - Reading #39 - Hope
Reading
Saint Augustine reflects on hope in his commentary on the Psalms, finding in the psalmist's cry a mirror for every soul's longing: "Hope that is seen is not hope. We are saved by hope. What then shall we do? We have not yet received our reward, and yet we are told to rejoice. How can we rejoice in what we do not yet possess? Because hope itself is a joy. 'Rejoicing in hope,' says the Apostle. He did not say 'rejoicing in the thing seen' but 'rejoicing in hope.'" Augustine continues: "There are two lives: one is the present, the other is the one we hope for. The present life is known to us; the life we hope for is not yet known. Love the one you do not see. Bear with the one you see, that you may come to the one you do not see. Yet even in this present life, hope brings a sweetness all its own. The person who awaits with certainty a great inheritance rejoices even now in the expectation, though the inheritance itself is not yet in hand." For Augustine, hope is not merely a future-directed virtue; it has present power. The joy of anticipation, the sweetness of confident waiting, the peace that comes from trusting the outcome, these are the gifts hope bestows right now, in the midst of the journey, before the destination is reached.
Reflection
Forty-one days into Lent, Augustine reveals hope's secret: it is already a form of joy. Our long journey through the virtues has been demanding, six weeks of discipline, self-examination, and sustained attention. But Augustine insists that the very act of hoping is sweet, that the confident anticipation of what God has promised brings genuine delight even before the promise is fulfilled. This is profoundly relevant as we approach the end of Lent. Easter is near, less than ten days away. And the anticipation itself is part of the gift. Just as the joy of waiting for Christmas morning was, for many of us, as precious as Christmas morning itself, so the hope of Easter carries its own sweetness. The long fast makes the feast meaningful. The darkness makes the dawn unmistakable. The journey makes the arrival home a cause for uncontainable joy. But Augustine is speaking of something deeper than holiday anticipation. He is speaking of the hope that sustains us through the whole of life, the confident trust that God is making all things new, that our suffering is not wasted, that the love we have received and given will endure beyond the grave. This hope does not eliminate present pain, but it transforms it. Pain without hope is despair; pain with hope is labor, the birth pangs of something new. As Lent draws to its close, let hope's sweetness sustain you. The inheritance is certain. The joy is already beginning.